Cold
by Pentakill Lux
Summary: John still has nightmares, but they are quite different now and Sherlock, of cause, notice. Set after The Reichenbach Fall.


Summery: John still has nightmares, but they are quite different now and Sherlock, of cause, notice. Set after The Reichenbach Fall.

Warning: spoilers for Reichenbach. Unbetaed.

A/N: this is a gift fic for Amy (amyyam at Tumblr).

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><p>John wakes up, heart pounding and the ghost of his own piercing scream echoing in his ears. His left hand dips under his pillow, a reflex he still carries even after all this time, and his fingers squeeze tight around the hard plastic of the SIG, the familiarity of it grounding him, while he tries to get his pulse under control.<p>

He knows he's been shouting in his sleep, and is therefore not surprised to find Sherlock leaned against the door frame, one hand holding a cup of coffee.

John's fingers clench the handle of the gun harder as a single drop of sweat traces along his temple and he realizes that his shirt is soaked. He doesn't even bother turning his head to see the red numbers on his alarm clock; it's dark outside, but Sherlock is still in the same clothes as when John went to bed, so he's guessing it's around two AM.

Except for the still-pounding noise in his ears the entire flat seems quiet, but it's unsurprising; Sherlock prefers the quiet when he's working. Luckily, John is past the stage where he's ashamed that his screams have interrupted that silence, and Sherlock never held this particular interruption against John.

"Still having nightmares about the war?" Sherlock asks, allowing himself this one redundant question for the sake of making conversation and distracting John.

"Yes." John nods in double confirmation, as if two validations cancel out the lie.

It's not until Sherlock turns with the words "I'll make you some tea," that John releases his grip on the gun, withdrawing his hand to wipe at his wet neck.

When he comes downstairs the electric kettle is already boiling and Sherlock is lying on the sofa with John's laptop, head resting against one armrest, long legs bend to make room for John in the other end. He doesn't acknowledge John's presence, just continues to read what John assumes to be e-mails or police reports or top secret government documents – all equally likely.

John makes his tea and finds a box of biscuits in the cupboard, surprised that Sherlock hasn't managed to _inhale_ the entire pack already; Sherlock doesn't eat much food, but he has a fondness for sweets, accepting sugar as a decent additive to Nicotine even during cases.

When he takes the empty seat in the sofa, Sherlock does in fact lift his eyes from the screen, taking in everything from John's tired face to the pack of chocolate biscuits in his hand, distracting John with a "I thought I'd eaten those," while he stealth his cold feet under John's thigh.

John allows the intrusion - as always - and pretends not to notice –as always - instead answering Sherlock's not-question. "I hid them. Surprised you didn't manage to sniff your way to them."

Sherlock pulls a grimace that he himself probably believes qualifies as a smile and John knows right then that Sherlock did in fact eat the last biscuits, but must have bribed Mrs. Hudson to buy more. Perhaps he's foreseen that John would need them. Honestly John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock's brains had gotten to a point where the other man could in fact predict the future. Since his return there seems to be no limits to what Sherlock's mind can do.

"New case?" John nods towards the computer and lifts the cup to his lips to blow. This time Sherlock's smile is genuine.

"Drug cartel." Sherlock volunteers, which is vague, even for Sherlock.

"I thought we agreed the next case wouldn't involve mortal peril?" John is honestly too tired to argue this point, and suspects that Sherlock is well aware of that fact.

"You can stay at home if you want." Sherlock simply answers, eyes fixating on the biscuits. John makes no move to hand them over.

"And let you run around London alone, getting shot at and kidnapped and killed?" John says, disbelief making his face smile involuntarily.

"I had it under control, we've been through this, John." The exasperation is Sherlock's voice is tangible. "I was already out of the handcuffs when you arrived!"

"If you think I'm leaving you alone again, you're a bloody idiot!" John closes his eyes. He hadn't meant to raise his voice. Sherlock stares at him blankly, eyes observing, brain processing. John thinks he can almost hear the hard drive working in there.

"You aren't having nightmares about the war, are you?" Sherlock asks, and John isn't surprised that Sherlock has worked it out, as much as he is surprised that it's taken Sherlock – with all his lack of consideration and tact – this long to ask.

"Biscuit?" John asks, offering the box with a strained smile and what he hopes is a general air of "non of your bloody business".

"If you don't want to talk about it that's fine." Sherlock says, even though it's clear, even to John, that he has no intention of letting the subject rest. John count the seconds, while bringing the cup to his lips.

"But honestly, John. It's just silly. If you're still holding a grudge..."

John almost chokes on his tea. "A grudge?" He manages before coughing. "Sherlock, you were dead! A grudge, my God."

"What then?" Sherlock presses, face actually full of true confusion. And John's mouth is hanging open, because Sherlock actually still doesn't get it. Not that he should be surprised, it's not really Sherlock's strongest area, empathy and feelings. And John doesn't know if he has the words to make him understand, but suddenly he's on his feet, because he needs the distance and the control.

"Me dreaming of you jumping off a roof and falling to your death has nothing to do with some petty grudge, Sherlock. You. Killed yourself. Dead or not, fake or not. I watched you die, and I watch you die, every single night. And every time someone holds a gun to your head. Every time I don't know where you are, I'm terrified." John stops, because he's not saying what he wants to. He's not saying the words that will make Sherlock understand. Something logical, something detectable.

"I cannot reason my way out of fear, Sherlock. Not like you. And my fear is that you will die. That I will lose you again, and this time there will be no coming back from the dead." John is very careful to stress the words, speaking as slowly and as clearly as he can. "And that fear is not just going to go away, because you want to pretend it never happened. Because you. Are the only thing I cannot handle losing. Not again, not now..." John holds his breath, eyes saying what his words cannot:_ Don't go where I can't follow._

Sherlock looks up at John, confusion turning to a stiff mask of determination, that John has learned means that Sherlock is having _feelings_ that he doesn't want to analyze and catalog. Then Sherlock is on his feet, towering over John, close, so close that any last inch of control is taken from John. But he doesn't mind. He never minds.

For a crazy moment John thinks Sherlock might hug him, but instead Sherlock's hands comes up to cover John's eyes and rest against the back of his head, holding John locked in blindness.

John can feel Sherlock breathing close, feel the heat of it on his face and for some reason, when Sherlock's hand lifts off the back of his head, seeking down John's neck, to his shoulder and down his arm to grab his wrist, John stays in place, leaning into Sherlock's hand still covering his eyes.

Sherlock brings John's hand up to rest against the soft, silky fabric of Sherlock's shirt, making him flatten his fingers by gently pressing his thumb to John's knuckles. And then John waits. Waits for Sherlock to say something clever, to explain. But Sherlock doesn't talk and John doesn't move.

As the minutes pass John starts to relax, noticing the beat under his palm. It's a little quicker than what's normal, but steady. And then he notice, almost as if Sherlock asked him to pay attention to this fact, that Sherlock's heart is complete in sync with his own. Sherlock has actually synchronized their heartbeats.

He almost pulls away and Sherlock notice the shift, easily reading the reason. When he speaks his voice is dark and creamy. "If you knew how lost I get, John. If you knew how hard it was for me to leave you. If you knew how much I need you, you would not fear. You are the heart to my brain. And for allowing you to be afraid, I apologize."

John can feel his throat closing, and it's training and determination that keeps the sob from reaching his vocal cord, instead dying as a sharp intake of breath. Then there's a feather light press of lips to his forehead and Sherlock is stepping away, taking the darkness with him.

John, however, doesn't move. Not until Sherlock is back on the sofa, feet drawn up under him and the computer back in his lap.

"I think I'll take that biscuit now." He says, as if nothing has happened in the room, since John offered it a lifetime ago. John sits down and hands the chocolate biscuits over. His tea's gone cold, he notice, but he drinks it anyway, smile on his face.


End file.
